


A Christmas Memory

by thedeafwriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Did I mention that I'm sorry?, Established Relationship, Family Gatherings, Fluff, Husbands, I am so sorry, I suppose, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Suicide mention, Though if you read tags it's not much of a surprise, death mention, then angst, twist ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5293412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeafwriter/pseuds/thedeafwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt - Married John & Sherlock at family dinners :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Before you read this, I am so, so sorry.  
> Also, this is unbeta'd because it was requested by my beta - http://fortunatelykeendetective.tumblr.com/

Snow had drifted to the floor only to melt on the wet surface. It was damp, cold and exactly how it was the year before that - an utterly predictable British winter.

Knives and forks were clattering on plates as chicken was cut, mash scraped onto the utensils and Brussel sprouts moved to hide from view, as John looked up and around at the faces around the table.

On the far end, facing each other, were Sherlock’s parents. Neither was talking, with pleasant smiles as they listened to the stories from the past year. Besides them was Mycroft, silent and trying so hard to brood but failing hard as he watched Greg’s animated face. They were faced opposite as well. Besides Greg was Molly, dressed in a baggy Christmas jumper and cheeks were tinged pink from the third glass of white wine, laughing joyously as Greg said the punchline.

John didn’t know what was being said. No, he was too busy trying to fit the sense of family into his head.

Opposite Molly was Harry who had been staring enviously at the wine glasses before glancing at her lemonade in disgust for the majority of the night before joining in, telling tales of ‘Johnny’ when they were younger. On her finger was a band of untanned skin that was slowly beginning to fade away. Then, if you had looked, you would see it.

Now, besides Harry, was Sherlock. A small pout was on his lips, an ugly jumper in place of his usual suit, and mirth in his eyes. He had watched John look around the table and now their attention was mutual. They watched each other as they took a bite of chicken dripped in gravy. They watched each other smile, their eyes crinkling with how wide they were, when another joke was made. They watched each other laugh as they pulled the Christmas crackers filled with jokes, small prizes and paper crowns.

That had been a night that John felt was something normal. Something he had craved in between the excitement between the cases, and it was perfect. He never wanted a normal life, having one with Sherlock meant that was a possibility, something he gave away freely and willingly on the day that he had exchanged rings with the addictive man that was Sherlock Holmes.

It was a night that he dreamt of, wishing it would come back, wishing it had never left.

Now there was no laughter at the table, just a sombre quiet. No stories were told, the Brussel sprouts were all eaten and nobody was willing to fill the silence with words. All but one, the chairs were filled.

Mr and Mrs Holmes sat in deep thought at the end of the table, with Mycroft and Greg besides them – matching gold bands glittering on their hands. Harry had her eyes half shut and a bottle of booze sat next to her, and Molly averted her eyes. They all stared at the plates in front of them, Christmas crackers left untouched.

John’s plate was still full, getting colder, as he stared at the chair that his husband had once sat in. The one that Sherlock sat in before Moriarty had come back. The one he sat in before getting shot in the head, as John was on the floor right beside them nursing the wound in his leg, and stared at John with fading, lifeless eyes.

John died exactly a year later, on Christmas day. A self-inflicted gunshot wound exactly where Sherlock had been shot.

Now they lie side by side, forever. The detective and his blogger, Mr and Mr Watson-Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I hate my brain too.  
> I can be reached on my Tumblr crying at - http://thedeafwriter.tumblr.com/


End file.
